The Consort
by Joelcoxriley
Summary: Ikaara is known by many titles on the Island of Solsthiem. Miraak's Consort is just one of them. *AU of Skyrim where Miraak took the role as The First (and Last) Dragonborn. Fifteen years after Skyrim events. **One Shot Series
1. Chapter 1

The Mother always said her face was too pretty to mar.

Too pretty to mar and scar the only thing good about her.

So she settled for her wrists.

She could hide them, after all.

Hide the scabs and scars with bracelets and long sleeves and body paint.

Hide the evidence of her self inflicted wounds governed by hate.

Ikaara was at war with her own body.

She hated it.

She hated her skin.

She hated her womb.

She hated her mind.

She hated her heart.

She hated everything.

Ikaara hated her skin. At times, she felt restless, unnerved and anxious. Confined. As if her own skin was a cage or confining blanket. Like she was trapped underneath and suffocating under a pile of filth. At times, watching the crimson lazily roll down her wrist from the pulsing and stinging cut calmed her. At least a part of her was escaping the disgusting confines of her flesh. Many said she was pretty. But Ikaara didn't feel pretty. She felt tainted, filthy, used. Soap and water couldn't make her feel clean. It made her look clean, but not feel it.

Ikaara hated her womb. The womb was supposed to be a sacred place. A safe place. The first home to new life. Her womb seemed more like a tomb, and her children destined for death. Her firstborn died within the very temple that was supposed to be her sanctuary. Ikaara's first labor did not end with the cries of a newborn babe, but rather, with silence, chord wrapped like a noose.

Ikaara spent most of her pregnancy with Kulsuleyk in a nervous fret. Her anxiety of her womb serving as another tomb caused bouts of sickness. She obssessed over the condition of her child. If she did not feel the fluttering of the babe moving within her belly, she would become anxious and worried.

The birth of her son may have calmed her fears, but it ushered forth a whole new feeling. Something went wrong when Kulsuleyk was in her womb. Her womb didn't nurture him right. The son of Miraak should be powerful, gifted, fearless-a natural born leader. Kulsuleyk was neither of these things. Her son was too soft of heart, meek and lacking confidence. Her son was a living disgrace to his father's prowess, and the failure of a male heir left Ikaara with a bitter taste in her mouth. It was not Kulsuleyk's fault. No. Never. Ikaara just could not bare powerful male heirs. Her womb was broken.

Ikaara loved Kulsuleyk. She would do anything for her boy. Support him in the best way she could. But that bitter taste was always there in her mouth. A silent reminder of what she truly thought. She was dissapointed of her son. He could be better. Stronger. Unchallenged in skill and power. But rather than focusing upon his nature, he was being a servant of the people.

Ignoring his skills. Remaining weak. Easy prey for wolves, her son like a lamb for slaughter.

Ikaara didn't want her son to be weak.

She didn't want him to get hurt.

She didn't want him to die.

But she also wanted her boy to be happy.

He was not happy training and learning the tactics of politics and war.

He was happy helping others, no matter how small.

Ikaara did her best to support her son.

Her supporting him, however, felt like she was killing him.

Failing him.

Failing to prepare her son for the cruelty of the world.

It felt like she was setting him up to die.

Ikaara hated her womb, but she also hated her mind.

Because Kulsuleyk inherited everything from her that made him weak.

And Ikaara just couldn't bring herself to do the best thing for her son, and go against her own weakness of the mind.

But Ikaara hated her mind the most for convincing herself, over and over and over again, that Miraak cared.

Actually cared.

About her.

About Kulsuleyk.

About their daughter.

It was a lie she told herself everyday.

It was a lie she forced herself into believing.

A lie she forced herself, at the same time, to not think about it.

As if to pretend the lie, and thus, her harsh reality, did not exist.

For Miraak had to care, did he not?

Care for the woman who bore him two heirs?

Care for Kulsuleyk because the boy was his son?

Care for their daughter because the infant was his daughter, and not just his true heir?

Surley he did, at least a little bit?

Many a time did Ikaara almost refer to The First Dragonborn as her husband-

-as her lover.

Many a time did Ikaara have to bite her tongue, and refer to the First Dragonborn as her _Thur_-

-as her Master.

And once more, like before, she was reminded of the bitter truth of her lie-of her fantasy.

Miraak never once referred to her as his wife-for they were certainly not married-nor,

-as his lover.

Miraak would simply refer to Ikaara by her name, or even worse, Dragon Knight-

-his Dragon Knight.

A tool.

A pawn.

A toy to use until all usefulness was spent and she was tossed aside.

A mere object to be used.

But certainly, he loved her, didn't he?

Somewhere, deep down. Deep, deep down?

He had to love her.

Certainly not as much as she loved him, but to love her, all the same.

He would not waste his time with her if he did not.

Would not have accepted her past had he not-seen passed the horrid creature of bodily filth that she was.

Ruined and used, a mere toy cast aside and forgotten.

Surly, he would not have chosen a woman of ill repute to sire his children, if he did not love her.

Miraak had to care.

Had to love her.

Deep, deep down.

There was no other reason he would accept her so.

Forgive her, for producing him such a disgrace as Kulsuleyk.

Forgive her, for producing him an heir with all her faults.

Forgive her, for merely having such weaknesses.

He loved her.

But she knew better.

It was just a lie.

Because Miraak didn't love her.

He didn't even care.

And knowing that ugly, horrid truth broke her heart, and shattered it.

It made Ikaara wish her heart would just stop beating.

Sometimes, when Ikaara let the truth in, she could feel it.

Her heart felt heavy, and she could feel each beat pulsing through her.

Her heart felt tired of simply beating.

Sometimes she wished it would just stop.

But when she let the lie in, and pretend everything was fine, she couldn't feel it.

Ikaara would rather live of a fantasy than the brutal reality.

Pretend to have a family, and not a broken, ruined one that was never truly a family to begin with.

But believing in the lie was tiring as well, in a different sense.

She felt ever fatigued and winded, trying to break and mold herself to keep her broken family together.

She tried to be the glue to tighten the cracks between her family, tried to bring them together, and keep them together.

Ikaara was just breaking herself instead.

Because as try as she might, and as hard as she pretended, Miraak would never love her as she wanted.

Because as try as she might, and as hard as she pretended, Miraak would never accept Kulsuleyk for being weak.

Because as try as she might, and as hard as she pretended, Miraak would never love Alura just for being his daughter.

No.

Ikaara's fantasy would never be her reality.

But if her reality is too difficult to face, why keep living in the lie?

Ikaara hated her heart.

She hated it more than her mind, more than her skin, and more than her womb.

She hated her heart, because it was too soft, too meek-

-And defied her mind.

The only thing Ikaara loved more than her children-was Miraak.

And the woman could not tell you a single reason as to why.

She just did.

It was a fragile, accepting, and gentle affection from the heart.

Devoted, non judgemental, and unwavering in support.

But Ikaara did not know why she cared for The First Dragonborn.

She could not find a single desirable trait about him.

Miraak was cruel.

Miraak was calloused.

Miraak was sadistic.

Miraak was arrogant.

Miraak was petty.

And yet-she loved him.

Devoted herself to him.

Swore her loyalty to him.

Bore his children for him.

She did so much for him.

All out of love.

All out of love for a fantasy that would never exist.

All out of love for a family that never existed.

Ikaara knew what to do.

She knew she should leave.

She knew she should restart her life.

Restart it with her true family-her children.

But her heart kept her from leaving-too soft, too meek, too fragile.

She knew her weakness well.

It was the same weakness that was in Kulsuleyk.

Ikaara didn't want her son to be like her.

So she tried, if ever halfheartedly, to make her son strong, so he would not be weak.

Not like his mother.

She tried to make him everything she was not-just like his father.

But that desire, in and of itself, was just anther fantasy.

And that knowledge would become just another scar upon her wrist to hide, crimson seeping from a heart too tired to beat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Splurge writing of mini one shots. So this was written for pure self indulgence.**

**Warning: Forced prostitution, hinted addiction, self harm, rape.**

**Kind of Miraak/OC if you squint really, really hard.**

* * *

Her eyes diverted from the man, and was rewarded with a viscous slap of a calloused hand, hard knuckles bashing and threatening to to create a bruise upon her temple.

White lights swirled at the edges, and rough fingers gripped her jaw.

"_Why the fuck are you looking away?! Never look away from me!_" The deep voice was harsh and shrill with an enraged scream, her eyes wide and white with terror.

Her eyes refocused, and a choking, strangled gag came from her throat as heated liquid spilled into her throat, horrid and foul. Her throat and face flushed, muscles bobbing and spasming as she heaved and tried to cease the torrent of urine from spilling down her throat. Her struggled to escape and break free, arms beating against the man, attempting to push herself off. She gagged and choked, gargled coughs causing a spray of saliva and urine to spritz passed her lips flush against his pelvis.

She was fighting him, attempting to escaping the humiliating violation.

She felt it burn her lungs and churn and lurge her stomach.

The urge to vomit welled within her throat, and hot tears streamed down her face.

Another strike to the face, followed by a scream.

"_Why are you crying?! Stop fucking crying! Stop fucking crying and enjoy it, you fucking whore!_"

* * *

She lay upon her stomach, wrists tied to the head of the bed posts, the strained frays of the rough rope creating brush burns from her struggles. Saliva welled within her mouth and ran down her chin from being gagged, make up smeared from old tears.

She had no idea how long she lay there.

She lost track of how many men walked and out of the room.

She didn't want to think of how many.

The creak of the old door opened and closed, heavy footfalls resounding upon the wood floor.

They stopped at the edge of the bed, and the clunk of boots and soft thud of clothes hit the floor.

The bed creaked in protest, and the sound of something metalic clinking hit her ears.

Her terror grew, and she attempted to crane her neck to see whatever it was.

Her hair was suddenly pulled, a muffled shriek coming from her, forcing her head back and her neck to bend. Her roots screamed, and a cool, leather strap was pressed flush against her neck.

It constricted with such force she couldn't breathe.

Raw panic and mortality set in, and she struggled and writhed haplessly.

It was not long until darkness took her.

* * *

She was unsure how she survived.

The bruises upon her wrists and throat were evidence of her survival enough-and not some horrid dream.

The horror was beyond terrifying. It was palpable, and seered into her mind.

But not all the clients were cruel.

Some were nice.

Some cared.

A young man hugged her.

Hugged.

It caused a lurch in her stomach, a type of girlish giddiness and happiness.

A brief moment of respite and security-if however disillusioned-against the backdrop of despair.

A brief flicker of hope, and light.

The Hugging Man said he would return.

Thus, she waited, eagerly, and vigorously, dreaming of foolish girl's dreams.

Like a lonely dog awaiting the return of its master, she would look out the window, and wait.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

Months turned into years.

The young man never returned.

* * *

Her menstral cycle was late.

No.

No.

No.

She could not be with child.

She would not have a child from monsters.

She would not have a child that wasn't concieved in love.

Never.

* * *

The examination was not pleasant, and the extraction was painful-a cold metal thing scraping around her womb.

She wasn't sure if the bleeding afterwards was from injury, or if it was what was left of the child.

She was allowed to take a week off to rest.

It made her realize how tiny her world was.

Her world was the size of a bedroom, and anything else outside may as well have not even existed.

* * *

Sex was painful ever since the removal, and she often bled afterwards.

When she requested time off to rest and recover, she was denied.

The Madame just said she had other holes.

* * *

When she was not working, she was thinking. And even during work, she was thinking.

In a way, she was glad the clients generally did not return.

It stopped the dreams and hopes before it even began.

The hope of having a future with someone. A dream of having a family, and being married.

She saw a lot of men with wedding bands. Some twisted them off before hand, others not.

They were pretty, but they also meant something.

A life outside these walls.

She was glad her clients stopped her from forming attachments.

Because attachments led to expectations.

And expectations led to dreams.

And dreams led to hope.

And hope led to a future.

It hurt less when being used like an object.

Because that's what she was.

A thing that people could find pretty, and utilize, but never attach to and love.

It was better this way.

Because hoping hurt too much.

* * *

Physical examinations were mandatory, for many reasons.

They were to check for health, and to check for viability.

Protection was mandatory, but even then, pregancy happened.

Some chose to keep their children.

Others not.

The ones that did, had their babes taken away the very day they were born.

Taken away from the city, and out into the country.

The children raised like cattle to a farm, under the watchful gaze of a former woman of ill repute.

She would rather abort.

Abortion was a mercy.

The children would just be raised to come back here one day.

Then they would be put to work.

* * *

She was standing.

Then she fell, and everything went black.

She woke minutes later, viscous saliva so thick it formed a white film of slime.

A seizure, they said it was.

She didn't know what a seizure was.

All she knew, was that they were more generous in giving her her next fix.

And that was all she cared about.

* * *

She prided herself on being pretty.

Her looks were all she had.

Her looks beckoned clients.

Clients brought coin.

Coin brought her next fix.

But only if she made enough.

And only if her physical examinations and health ailments did not take much of her coin.

When they did, she worked harder.

And when that wasn't enough, she worked even more.

She worked so much, she even drempt of working.

She hated waking up tired from work, only to get up and work.

* * *

She exercised a lot.

She exercised all day, really.

Smiling was her most common exercise regimen.

It was also the most strenuous.

Frowning was so much easier.

Smiling too much made her face tired.

* * *

Sometimes she felt numb.

It was a slow, consuming feeling.

Sometimes she couldn't tell reality from dream.

At times, dreams felt like reality, and reality felt like dreams.

It didn't hurt to check which was which.

It was just skin.

Blood didn't bleed the same way in dreams.

* * *

Getting men was easy.

It was telling the truth that was the hard part.

Because lying was easy.

Men liked hearing lies more than truth.

That they were handsome.

That they were large.

That they were good.

Lying was easy.

She always had to think too much when telling the truth.

She'd rather not think.

She'd rather lie instead.

* * *

Wake up.

Do hair.

Do make up.

Wear good clothes.

Smile.

Work.

Work.

Work.

Get paid.

Get fix.

Forget.

Remember.

Take bath.

Scrub.

Scrub.

Scurb.

Stare at wall.

Go to bed.

Stare at ceiling.

Did that crack get bigger from last night?

* * *

She didn't make enough again.

She didn't get her fix.

So she took someone else's.

She didn't know what happened to the other girl.

She just knew the girl was out for three weeks for injuries.

* * *

Civil War?

White-Gold Concordick?

She didn't know what that meant.

She didn't care.

What was happening out there wasn't going to get her paid.

Inside was.

It was all that mattered.

She just wished it didn't make her feel stupid.

At least she could pretend to know what her clients sometimes prattled on about.

* * *

She knew what she would do tomorrow.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

It was tiring.

Sometimes she felt so hollow staring into the eyes of tomorrow.

* * *

Freedom.

A word she did not know until she stepped out of that hell, and into the light.

The wind was too cold, and the sun was too bright.

Everyone buzzing and moving.

Their movements were too swift.

Their voices were too loud.

What were they doing?

Where were they going?

How did they know?

Freedom.

Ikaara thought she would like it.

Like the outside.

She didn't.

It was chaos.

How did everyone know what to do?

Where to go?

What to say?

Who was telling them?

Ordering them?

Was this what freedom was?

Free will?

Ikaara didn't like it.

It was scary.

Foreign.

Threatening.

For the first time, she wanted to go back to the safety of her room.

At least within those walls, it was something familiar.

Something less scary than the chaos called freedom.

* * *

Maybe the Madame was right.

Maybe she was useless?

Ikaara wasn't sure what to do with herself on the outside.

* * *

Learning was easy when one could just slip into their minds.

Implementing such tasks, however?

Utilizing their abilities?

That took practice.

* * *

The Madame was wrong.

She was not useless.

Worthless.

Ikaara didn't have a Madame.

She had a _Thur_.

He was far better.

Miraak knew potential when he saw it.

* * *

The elderly cook was giving her a look.

A knowing look.

When asked, the older woman merely smiled, and spoke thus,

"You are smitten with the Master. Whenever he walks into the room, you forget how to breathe."

* * *

Breathing was easy.

Only when it wasn't.

Whenever Miraak entered the same room, Ikaara realized something.

She forgot how to breathe.

* * *

Hope was a foreign word.

Ikaara didn't think of hope much.

She didn't think of it, because it hurt to hope.

Hope made her sad.

But this hope was different.

This hope stood a chance.

A chance, she thought.

A glimmer of hope.

Or was it merely a trick of the light?

* * *

Acceptance.

Or, perhaps, tolerance, twisted into acceptance.

A trick of the light, casting perceived glimmers of hope.

She told her _Thur_.

She told him everything, of her past.

Miraak did not look at her with disgust.

Nor distain.

Nor disrespect.

He did not look at her any differently than she was before.

* * *

They said fire ran through her veins, and sulfur spewed from her breath.

For many a year, she hid what she was.

Confined by her own inner trappings and fears.

Fearful of the flame.

A push is often needed-

A reminder-

"_It is best to not be swayed by the feelings of others. Your powers are beyond them._"

* * *

She need not be fearful of the flame.

She is the flame.

* * *

A child was something she never thought of hoping for.

Yet, here she was.

Carrying the First Dragonborn's child.

Carrying the heir of the Alduin's Slayer.

She could not be more proud.

* * *

A bloodline.

A bloodline to continue both hers, and his.

To continue the draconic line.

That was what was important.

Her disappointment of Miraak seeming to not care about her needs-emotionally and mentally-was not.

It was something she kept in mind.

He had more important things to care about than her.

* * *

Dressing to catch the eye almost seemed natural to her.

It would certainly be natural, were she to not have so much experience in trial and error.

She could catch the eye of any man-she knew.

After all, one could not be a woman of ill repute, and be average, at best.

She could catch of eye of any man-she knew that.

She could seek to allure.

To dazzle.

To please.

Any man-

-Save for Miraak.

In her attempts to appease him, to relieve him of stress-

Miraak did not utter a word.

Did not seem to care in her added efforts to attract his attention.

Ikaara did not understand.

Perhaps she was doing something wrong?

It had to be.

And then she remembered-

-Miraak had more important things to deal with than her.

* * *

Flight was freedom.

She could feel the power coursing through her veins.

The cold Nordic winds being cast askew into torrents of powerful gusts, slaves to the beating of her wings.

She was not confined by walls nor mind.

Her wings birthed squalls akin to a raging storm at will.

Her greater form caused the very earth to tremble as she landed.

Their swords-mere jagged sticks-when scraped against her hide.

Their armors-folded as if parchment within her jagged maw.

Her fire-hot enough to turn bone to cinders.

Why did she hide from this bloodline-this power-in her youth?

Fear, she reasoned.

It kept her back.

Kept her hidden.

Kept her chained.

She was trying to keep a part of herself a slave to the wills of her masters.

Trying to think she was just like everyone else.

Just a girl, naive and foolish, who was unfortunate enough to be caught within the spider's web.

Weak willed.

A slave not only to her masters-but to herself.

The Madame taught her things.

Her Madame taught her how to be a slave.

Her _Thur _taught her things.

Miraak taught her that _Dovah_ were not slaves.

They were too powerful to be slaves.

She was too powerful to be a slave.

The Madame had no control over her.

Nor did Miraak-for Ikaara chose to aid the First Dragonborn willingly.

Loyally.

Now, Ikaara learned that she needed to be loyal not only to her _Thur_, but to herself.

She was no longer going to be a slave to herself.

She was going to set herself free.

She would no longer be fearful.

Be doubtful.

Be hesitant.

No.

From now on, this was her reign of fire.

And she would make everything burn.

* * *

**I do plan to go further into detail upon the relationship of Miraak and Ikaara, eventually. I'm just not sure when.**

**Thank you for reading.**


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